


There's Trouble For All When There's Trouble For One

by Idol_pastimes



Category: EastEnders (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:41:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22765657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idol_pastimes/pseuds/Idol_pastimes
Summary: Ben is cold.  He's worked at it for years, building up a distance, a remove.  Perfected it, made it his own.  But today is the first time he's actually felt it.  You don't miss the warmth you've never known.  By God, he wishes he'd never known Callum's.
Relationships: Callum "Halfway" Highway/Ben Mitchell
Kudos: 31





	There's Trouble For All When There's Trouble For One

**Author's Note:**

> A miserable little piece that popped into my head as my rat-trap of a brain tries desperately to second-guess the writers of a programme who may very well not have the best interests of my favourite pairing in many many years at heart. Oh, I hope I'm wrong about bits of this... and I wouldn't altogether mind if I was to be right about other bits. :P

People were shouting. It seemed like that was all he’d heard for days, now; he’d been shouting, Martin, his dad, Keanu, everyone’s voices just louder and louder until-

Now.

All these voices making noise that made no sense. Words gabbled in the inky black and Ben could only gasp in panic at the realisation that he _couldn’t remember Callum’s voice_.

The boat rocked sickeningly. The dark water merged with the dark sky and he knew it was freezing cold. Knew that it was odd that he wasn’t shivering, knew that it was dangerous, but only on another level of consciousness. In another state of knowing. Because he couldn’t stop remembering the broken body lying in a warehouse across the river. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard that voice saying his name or holding his hand or pulling him in to engulf him in oversized arms and hands and fingers, couldn’t remember being warm, feeling his warmth-

‘He’s dead.’

It wasn’t a question. He’d been staring at the ashen face in front of him without blinking since they’d both been pulled from the water and he couldn’t work up the energy to care either way. The dirty beard and the soaked puffer jacket made the man they were fluttering around incessantly look like a corpse dredged up from the riverbed and as far as Ben was concerned, he’d be more interested if it had been a blow-up doll. 

Someone responded anyway.

‘We’re trying to warm up his core temperature, sir, but we won’t know his condition for certain until we get him back to dry land. How are you feeling?’

Ben wasn’t up for answering idiotic queries; he’d had his fill of today. He was done. Done and checked out. He didn’t speak. 

He just kept on staring at that bearded face and waiting for it to shift, to change, to show _some sign of life_.

Instead, it stayed placid and still and all Ben could think of was how little he cared.

He closed his eyes and felt nothing.

Everyone was crying, it seemed. Ever since the news had spread, ever since Keanu the _hero_ had rescued Bex from the river, leapt into harm’s way to save her, had given his life to save hers, everyone and their dog had a faraway look in their eye and a sad glance to share.

The square was smothering with well-wishes and _London-spirit_ , a coming together of self-righteousness and shared misery and long-eyed stares that had kept Ben holed-up in the flat for a solid two days.

He’d pulled the phone line out of the wall and chucked his mobile under the sofa after the thirteenth missed call from Jay or Lo or whoever had been stupid enough to think that he’d care about _anything_ after what he’d done, what he’d caused.

It was only a matter of time, he knew. Only a few more hours and Stuart would be in here, kicking his head in again, and once more, he knew he’d let him.

Only this time, it’d be fully deserved. 

Ben had never been more sure of anything.

It wasn’t worth worrying about.

He wondered where his dad had got to, vaguely pondering where he would go if _he_ had just witnessed the death of the bloke who’d knocked up his daughter and wife; if he’d finally got what he wanted. The thinking didn’t last long. Ben couldn’t seem to keep a thought straight in his head and he didn’t even have the energy to laugh at the pun. More than that, he couldn’t bring himself to care enough to, either.

So what. The great Phil Mitchell had stormed back to the rescue, and, as ever, he’d screwed everyone over. Again. _Again_. 

And Ben had let him.

Again.

He banged the back of his head slowly, deliberately against the wall, scratching stubby nails through the abrasive carpet fibres and barely registering the darkening colours of the room from his position on the floor. Sun was going down again, he supposed. Didn’t matter at this point. Wouldn’t change anything.

The door buzzer was shrill in his good ear. He’d pulled out his aid after the dunk in the river and put it down somewhere in the time in between; it could be anywhere from the hospital to this spot and he wouldn’t know where to start looking. Probably knackered now anyway. Thames water was the last thing you wanted to dip any part of your body in, never mind a delicate piece of kit like that. 

He didn’t notice when the buzzing stopped. 

It was fully dark, now. The tips of his fingers were rubbed raw but the simplicity of the movement seemed so easy, so smooth and _necessary_. He kept scratching.

An abrupt turn of a key and thundering of footsteps barely shook him out of his remove. The introduction of a clenched fist round his damp jacket lapels at least had him blinking and sucking in a deep breath as he was dragged to a standing position. The up-close, fury-filled, wide eyes of Stuart Highway were never a welcome sight to Ben. Never had been. Always boded poorly for him, he’d learned fairly rapidly. Still, he’d never been one to avoid his just desserts, so he made no move to escape the grasp, even when he was shaken, hard, and slammed up against the wall once more.

It made no difference; just meant he didn’t have to move his head himself to make that contact anymore. Good old Stuart was here to do it for him.

‘You finished wallowing, yet, Mitchell? You finished hiding away where no one can find you? Sitting here, in my home, in _my brother’s home_ , pretending like you’ve still got a right to be here? _A right to breathe after what you’ve done?_ ’

Ben wasn’t following. He was staring into Stuart’s face, he knew that much. He could see the anger, feel the hot breath on his face, but little else was registering except for the knowledge that his legs had gone to sleep and if it wasn’t for the grip on his clothes, he would absolutely have slid back down to the floor by now.

He was slammed once more into the wall and the impact jarred a brief moment of realisation into his head. Stuart was here.

Stuart was _here_.

If he was here, then- He wouldn’t have left if-

He-

‘He’s dead?’

The tiny escape of words hung on a breath, and Ben would always wonder at the rolling stream of emotions that compressed and mutated Stuart’s face right then, an inch away from his own. Fury into rage into horror into misery until tears boiled up and one, just one, held tight to the lip of his left eyelid as his mouth twisted back into fury once more. Shoving Ben into the wall again knocked the droplet free, and it fell to the carpet unchecked.

‘No he’s not dead, you freak. He’s still alive, no thanks to you. He’s alive, and facing the most terrifying news he’s ever had to face, and where are you? Hiding away from him, from me, from the family of the people you’ve messed around and hurt and what for? What for, ay, Ben? So you could feel like the big man? The saviour of poor little Callum, the avenger of all of daddy’s wrongs? He’s lying there in that hospital, broken up and may never walk again, all because _you couldn’t leave him alone!_ ’

The final words were punctuated with a last push and Stuart let go, turning away and pacing the floor, dragging a palm over his head and kicking out at the coffee table, before veering back and towering over Ben once more. 

He didn’t see him, though. His eyes were staring through the man in front of him to another time, another life ruined because of him. Of crying endless tears and facing years of guilt and darkness and-

‘I can’t do this again, I can’t do it-’

A palm cracked across his cheek and he dragged in a sharp, freezing cold gasp of oxygen. Suddenly, every one of his nerves seemed to be on end, jarring and overstimulated. The bulb behind Stuart’s head was too bright, the walls too pink, the burning in his fingertips throbbing incessantly.

He knew he was staring. Knew as his eyes burned with the need to blink, but he was unable to order them to do what should be as natural as breathing. The bulky finger that was pointing directly at the bridge of his nose punctuated the words that were spat between clenched teeth.

‘You _can_ do it. You caused this, so you _will_ do it. You’ll drag yourself out of this flat and you’ll drag yourself into that hospital room and you will do everything and anything that my brother asks of you until the time when he realises what a monumental waste of skin you are, Ben Mitchell. And when that happens, when he tells you to get out of his life for good, then you’ll do that too. Because you owe him that. You owe him everything that you have to give and if you don’t give him every shred of yourself starting now, then there won’t _be_ a shred of you left to find. You get that?’

He didn’t get it. He wasn’t hearing words anymore.

All he could think of as he was hustled down the stairs in his still damp clothes and soaked shoes, as he was pushed across the dark square and into a dark vehicle – the _hearse,_ his mind cackled merrily – and sat, shivering in his dark corner of the car, was that he couldn’t ever remember being this cold.

And he still couldn’t remember Callum’s voice.


End file.
